JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 63 из 223Besides!” Harper’s swollen face suddenly looked cheerful. “There’s no pincers, remember?”
Sweet William unbuckled his pouch. “The barber-surgeons of London, my dear Sergeant, will pay six shillings and six pence for a ten-ounce bag of sound teeth taken from corpses. You’d be surprised how many fashionable London ladies wear false teeth taken from dead Frogs.” Frederickson flourished a vile-looking pair of pincers. “They’re also useful for a spot of looting.”
“God save Ireland.” Harper stared at the pincers.
Captain Frederickson smiled. “You’ll be doing it for England, Sergeant Harper, for your beloved King.”
“Christ, no, sir!”
“Strip to the waist,” Sharpe ordered^
“Strip?” Harper had backed into the corner of the filthy byre.
“We need to have your chest soaked in blood,” Sharpe said as though this was the most normal procedure in the world. “As soon as the tooth’s pulled, Patrick, let the blood drip on to your skin. It won’t take long.”
“Oh, Christ in his heaven!” Harper crossed himself.
“It doesn’t hurt, man!” Frederickson took out his two false teeth and grinned at Harper. “See?”
“That was done with a sword, sir. Not bloody pincers!”
“We could do it with a sword.” Sharpe said it helpfully.
“Oh, Mary mother of God! Christ!” Harper, seeing nothing but evil intent on his officers’ faces, knew that he must mutiny or suffer. “You’d be giving me a wee drink first?”
“Brandy?” Frederickson held out his canteen.
Harper seized the canteen, uncorked it, and tipped it to his mouth.
“Not too much,” Frederickson said.
“It’s not your bloody tooth. With respect, sir.”
Frederickson looked at Sharpe. “Do you wish to play the surgeon, sir?”
“I’ve never actually drawn a tooth.” Sharpe, in front of the curious Riflemen who had gathered to watch Harper’s discomfiture, kept his voice very formal.
Frederickson shrugged. “We should have a screw-claw, of course, but the pincers work well enough on corpses. Mind you, there is a knack to it.”
“A knack?”
“You don’t pull.” Frederickson demonstrated his words with graphic movements of the rusted pincers. “You push the tooth towards the jawbone, twist one way, the other, then slide it out. It’s really not hard.”
“Jesus!” The big Irish sergeant had gone pale as rifle-cartridge paper.
Sweet William unbuckled his pouch. “The barber-surgeons of London, my dear Sergeant, will pay six shillings and six pence for a ten-ounce bag of sound teeth taken from corpses. You’d be surprised how many fashionable London ladies wear false teeth taken from dead Frogs.” Frederickson flourished a vile-looking pair of pincers. “They’re also useful for a spot of looting.”
“God save Ireland.” Harper stared at the pincers.
Captain Frederickson smiled. “You’ll be doing it for England, Sergeant Harper, for your beloved King.”
“Christ, no, sir!”
“Strip to the waist,” Sharpe ordered^
“Strip?” Harper had backed into the corner of the filthy byre.
“We need to have your chest soaked in blood,” Sharpe said as though this was the most normal procedure in the world. “As soon as the tooth’s pulled, Patrick, let the blood drip on to your skin. It won’t take long.”
“Oh, Christ in his heaven!” Harper crossed himself.
“It doesn’t hurt, man!” Frederickson took out his two false teeth and grinned at Harper. “See?”
“That was done with a sword, sir. Not bloody pincers!”
“We could do it with a sword.” Sharpe said it helpfully.
“Oh, Mary mother of God! Christ!” Harper, seeing nothing but evil intent on his officers’ faces, knew that he must mutiny or suffer. “You’d be giving me a wee drink first?”
“Brandy?” Frederickson held out his canteen.
Harper seized the canteen, uncorked it, and tipped it to his mouth.
“Not too much,” Frederickson said.
“It’s not your bloody tooth. With respect, sir.”
Frederickson looked at Sharpe. “Do you wish to play the surgeon, sir?”
“I’ve never actually drawn a tooth.” Sharpe, in front of the curious Riflemen who had gathered to watch Harper’s discomfiture, kept his voice very formal.
Frederickson shrugged. “We should have a screw-claw, of course, but the pincers work well enough on corpses. Mind you, there is a knack to it.”
“A knack?”
“You don’t pull.” Frederickson demonstrated his words with graphic movements of the rusted pincers. “You push the tooth towards the jawbone, twist one way, the other, then slide it out. It’s really not hard.”
“Jesus!” The big Irish sergeant had gone pale as rifle-cartridge paper.